Shattered
by LKSimms
Summary: The human brain has a funny way of dealing with tragic events. The last remaining Winchester must piece together the final days of his brother's life, while dealing with his grief, and that of his sisterinlaw and her children. Futurefic.


The hospital calls on a Wednesday morning. He's awake, they say, and asking about his brother.

Sarah moves quickly. She has been waiting for this day for the past two and a half weeks, with mixed emotions that vary with every passing hour. Regardless of how she feels, she knows what needs to be done, and while she is a Winchester in married name alone, she nevertheless works as rapidly and efficiently as though she had been born into the family. She does not allow herself to get bogged down with emotional trivialities, does not give in to the luxury of self-pity. She does not give herself even the shortest of moments to consider what this phone call means to her life, to the lives of her children. She does not consider the impact it will have on their collective futures, and perhaps this is beneficial. If she was given the time to consider the significance of what has happened, and what could soon happen, she would bow and likely break under the suppressing weight of it all.

So she continues to move, going through the motions and acting out the plans she has had etched into her mind for the past 19 days, almost completely devoid of any upper level brain thought. The kids are packed up and dropped off at Sarah's eldest sister's house, conveniently located almost directly along the route to the County Hospital. They do not go quietly, but at this time in her life, Sarah can only deal with one crisis at a time. She leaves them with tear stains on their cheeks, and does not allow herself to feel bad about it.

At the hospital's front reception, the nurses recognize her from her frequent visits, and are expecting her. They wave her past to the bank of elevators at the end of the hallway. From there, she proceeds to the fourth floor, where she takes the first available right, then a left at the next intersection.

And then, for all intents and purposes, her wait is over. Inside Room 403 lays the answer to all her questions, and at the same time, the reason for all her nightmares. While she has been waiting for this day for some time, she has also been dreading it. And now that she is here, she is surprised to discover she does not want to go through with it. The urge to turn around and return the way she came is so strong that for a moment, she can't breath. The pressure against her chest is nearly unbearable, but while she doesn't move forward, she doesn't leave either.

The prospect of having her questions answered is tempting, but the added side-effect of dissolving the comforting layer of denial that she has wrapped around herself is so frightening her hands begin shaking, and her knees start knocking together. But even in the grip of such strong emotions, she recognizes that this day is not only about her. Lives other than hers and her children's lay in the balance, and even if she won't acknowledge that, she cannot forget the promise she made. It is not the nature of the promise, but rather who she made it to that breaks her from her momentary paralysis, and forces her to move past those dreaded fifteen feet to the doorway of that room.

It's a semi-private room, but the second bed has remained empty for the past sixteen days. The blinds are open, but the day is overcast and little natural sunlight illuminates the dreary colour scheme. Sarah pauses in the doorway. The room is quiet, unnaturally so. On the second day, Sarah bought a small MP3 player and a pair of portable speakers, and since then, one form or another of classic rock has been played quiet throughout all hours of the day and night. Without it, the room seems eerily empty, even tomb-like. But it is far from it.

He's lying in the bed closest to the door, eyes closed presumably against the glare of the harsh florescent lighting above him. Dark bags under his eyes, bruises on one cheek, stitches across the other and stubble growing in along the lower half of his face combine to make him appear at least five years older than his actual age. Both hands rest atop the crisp white hospital covers, and the fiberglass cast around his left wrist hides the horrible mess it was when he was first admitted.

All things considered equal, Sarah thinks he looks worse than the first time she saw him here.

She takes a step further into the room, clearing her throat softly to announce her presence. As if he had not been unconscious for the past nearly three weeks, his eyes fly open and he starts, hands flexing against the stark white of the sheet before relaxing again. Grateful recognition floods his features.

"Sarah, thank God. They aren't telling me anything. Where is he? What the hell is going on?"

Sarah walks further into the room, setting her bag down on an empty instrument table. There's a chair resting against the far wall; she carries it to his bedside and sits down next to him. For a man so adept at hiding emotions and wearing masks, his worry and despair are evident in both his tone and his facial expressions. She would like to take away his pain if it did not add so much to her own.

"What do you remember?"

She rests her hands on the mattress, reaching out with long fingers to stroke the bare strip of tanned upper arm showing through his hospital gown. If he feels the attempt at comfort, he characteristically does not acknowledge it. Clearly agitated, he squeezes his eyes shut. His good hand closes into a white-knuckled fist.

"God, I don't know. They already asked me this. I don't remember a goddamn thing. Why won't you just tell me?"

Her hand stills against his arm. As much she has thought about this moment, she is loathe to discover she is not prepared in the least. The words she has planned and agonized over are lost to her, and she is speechless.

"Sarah, please." His fingers wrap around her wrist; this close, she can see every scraped knuckle, every torn nail and worn callus. She lifts her chin to meet his gaze, and the basic need in his eyes almost halts the breath in her chest. "Nothing could be worse than this, this not knowing. Please."

She frowns, pulls her hand from his grasp and nervously picks at already split cuticles. Sarah can feel his gaze heavy on her face. She doesn't want to have this conversation. She doesn't want to say it out loud, because that will make it real, will shatter the fortress of denial she has so carefully constructed around herself.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

Nineteen days ago, those words were coming from Sarah's mouth. She would give anything not to have to hear them again.

He blows a breath out through closed lips. On the bed, his hands clench around the hospital sheets. "So it was all for nothing. My whole fucking life."

She hasn't any idea how to respond to that, so she stays quiet. They have known each other for quite some time, and are past the polite need to give each other space. While she watches, his face twists into an expression of such turmoil her heart wrenches with it. The scene is suddenly blurry before her, his picture swimming in and out of focus. He covers his eyes with one hand, and turns his face away from her.

For a moment, neither says anything. Sarah is revisiting her grief, so strong and painful it's as if the past sixteen days never happened. With the tears now wetting her cheeks, it feels as though she has never stopped weeping. For the man next to her, it is all too new.

"I don't-"He begins talking only to pause, breathing deeply for a few seconds before continuing. "I don't remember what happened. I can't-"

He breaks off as a harsh sob bursts forth, unbidden. Sarah reaches out to gently touch his hand still resting atop the stark white hospital sheets. He screws his eyes shut and he tucks his chin against his shoulder, as if wishing to deny evidence of what has happened. His breathing is harsh in the otherwise quiet of the room.

"It's all right. The doctors said that might happen, because of the …trauma."

The words sound clinical and cold, but if he notices he doesn't care.

"What do you remember?"

She's asked the question before she registers she's speaking; she realizes too late that she doesn't want to know. There are some things that should remain a mystery, and this is absolutely one of them.

Fortunately for both of them, a doctor appears in the doorway, rapping lightly against the frame before entering.

"Good morning, Mrs. Winchester. I'm glad you made it all right."

"Hello, Dr. Norman." Sarah is unashamed of the salty lines that still mark her cheeks; this middle-aged ER doctor has seen her and countless others at their worst. Having worked in the ER for the majority of her career, she no longer reacts to the expressions of devastation she sees on the faces of those she passes.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Winchester?"

"I've been better." He clears his throat uncomfortably, picks at a stray thread on his blanket. "When can I get out of here?" Always the sore patient, even in such a situation his mind is already searching for an escape. Sarah can sympathize. She feels like she's been searching for an escape for almost three weeks.

"Well, if that's your question I come bearing good news." Dr. Norman steps closer, hitches one hip on the corner of the bed. "Your x-rays are clean. The swelling in your brain has come down, and there appears to be no ill effects from your concussion, and subsequent coma. Provided you're willing to take care of yourself for the next couple of months, you should walk away without any lasting damage."

Sarah stiffens at the unintentional insensitivity of the words. If the doctor knew the kind of damage that had likely been inflicted on this man's heart and soul, it is likely she would not discharge him without a psychiatric consult. Her words grate against still raw wounds, but Sarah knows the doctor does not mean any ill will. When one has to care for 25+ patients, it becomes difficult to remember the details of each case.

"If you'll just come with me, Mrs. Winchester, there are some insurance forms that need to be signed before anyone can be released."

Sarah rises without a word, follows the doctor without a look back. She is led down the hall she took to arrive here, back tracking her route to the nurses' station she passed on the way in. There, a nurse has already prepared the proper forms to be signed, all attached together on a clipboard with a pen resting parallel to it.

Her hands shake as she picks up the clipboard. She recognizes the same forms as the ones she saw nineteen days ago, and the simple connection is enough to once again drive home the grief. She closes her eyes against the blurriness, and when she opens them again, the words are clear.

Their policy number is typed at the top of the page, underneath the insurance agency's logo. Beneath that are the words that cause her breath to halt in her lungs. She swallows carefully.

_Policy holders: Samuel Winchester (deceased) _

_ Sarah Winchester (spouse)_

It's infinitely harder than she thought, and without bothering to read the rest of it, she scribbles her name next to the _X _ at the bottom of the page. She shoves the clipboard through the small window at the nurse waiting there, and it's a long twenty minutes in the bathroom before she makes her way back to Dean.


End file.
